St John's House

... through the eyes of my uncle Jack, my mum's beloved brother. He drew this picture when he was 11 or 12. It is St John's House near Marcross in South Galmorgan, where her family used to go for an annual holiday, staying in the barns at the back of the house. One year, they rescued a group of scouts who were under canvas further down the valley towards the sea and who were flooded out in heavy rain. She said they all had the best holiday ever.

Jack emigrated to Australia, fought in the war for the Australian army, worked as a cane cutter, grave digger, all sorts, so that he could write. He had three novels published, one of which I admire incredibly. Alas, he was one of the guineapigs who was experimented on by psychiatrists who were trialling the use of LSD for depression. Unfortunately, the drugs did lasting damage and he committed suicide in 1965. I have a smallish bundle which his widow sent to my grandmother in Wales with all his manually-typed notes and which my mum passed on to me. It is my intention to sort through to see if there are short stories or plays worth reading or putting into the public domain. His third novel is by far the best. Who knows what else he might have written had he not died so young.

I have two cousins who I have never met.